An anguish,
that only angels and heroes know. 
They alone seek strength in the bitterness of truth
that makes blood boil
            and spill. 
 
            While the rest sit wishing. 
 
Dreams and prayers:  Salve for mortal souls,
to soothe, to smother,
            that divine ache which brings life. 
Giddy fascinations that tickle one's weak smallness of heart. 
Lie to your inner place,
and all is well. 

But I hear those weeping angel voices rise up,
            triumphant. 
And the thirsty screams of heroes. 
They gulp from the yearning
that drives power into places already strong with lustful vigor. 

But how sweet the medicine of your wishing.
A honeyed prayer to fill
your emptiness. 
A prayer to your angels perhaps.
A hope 
 
that life is forced to yield it's greedy reward. 
Not by striving..
 
            ..but by desire alone.